


Fruit Salad

by daroos



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), She-Hulk
Genre: F/M, Face Sitting, PWP, seriously clint how do you keep having sex with all these people?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 11:36:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1549154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daroos/pseuds/daroos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton/Jennifer Walters PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fruit Salad

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the always terrible SarlaccVagina, without whom this would not be written. I blame you, Nix. Special thanks to Blackestglass who beta'ed and cleaned up my the mess my commas had made.

“Only you, Clint.”

Clint pressed the oldschool fill-it-with-ice-cubes ice pack to his face and groaned. “Jen, honest, I just—”

“I know,” she interrupted him and patted him on the knee. “This shit just happens to you. Let me dump these guys on the curb and we’ll see if you have a concussion or not.”

Jennifer Walters stood with a little grunt and checked the zip-ties on the tracksuits that had busted into her office. She spared a sad glance for her brand new office door, which now hung slightly off centre and had a crack down the glass. She collected the clutch of mobsters by their restraints and dragged them downstairs en-masse, bumping down each step. They’d have bruised butts to add to their bruised faces.

She’d activated Clint’s Avengers communicator, so someone would be by to collect them shortly; she daisy-chained them around a light pole and went back in to see to Clint. He’d stretched out more fully on her couch and thrown a hand over his eyes. His knuckles were split, he had a collection of bruises around his eyes and jaw that said he’d been in a number of fistfights recently, and his lip was swollen.

“You’re lucky I like a guy with a few bruises or you’d be out on your ass,” she told him. He winced. “Up, up,” she commanded. Her Hulk strength was wearing off from the adrenaline drop and she was feeling a little loopy herself. She cupped the back of Clint’s head and helped him into an upright position. He groaned. “Baby,” she admonished.

“You try taking a piledriver like that without a little complaint. If I’da had my bow—”

“I’d probably have much more property damage in the office.” She glanced around meaningfully. One wall would need some touch-up plastering, and one chair was a goner, smashed for kindling into the legs of one of the tracksuits.

Clint dropped the ice pack from his jaw and Jennifer began the careful process of feeling around his skull for any broken parts. Under his messy flop of hair, Clint’s scalp was a network of scars. He winced at a spot right around his temple and made an unhappy sound when she felt down his jaw. “Are you a doctor too?” he asked.

“Nope. Just the law degree. I’ve hung around you nuts for long enough to know how to find a skull fracture, though. I think you’re good. Let’s get a look at those eyes.” She checked his pupils which didn’t seem to respond correctly. She frowned. “How you feeling?”

Clint shrugged. “Eh.” At her pointed look, he elaborated. “A bit nauseous. The lights are kinda brain-stabby.”

She sighed. “You, my friend, have a mild concussion.”

“Aaw, brain.”

“Look, it’ll take me an hour or two to draw up those documents for you. Why don’t you rest here and we’ll see how you’re feeling when I’m done; take you to a real doctor if you’re still not right.”

“You don’t have to— that is, I messed this all up...”

“You hired me for a job, Barton. I’m going to do it and I’m going to make it airtight and I’m going to send you on your way. Capiche?”

“No mobster talk,” Clint groaned.

“Fair enough. Lay down, Hawkeye. Don’t die from a brain bleed.”

“No promises.”

Jennifer rolled her eyes, but sat behind her desk, reordered the papers which had gotten disturbed in the scuffle, and began drawing up the incorporation forms for Clint and the apartment complex he apparently bought from mobsters; mobsters who were quite invested in convincing Clint he shouldn’t be in the real estate business.

Clint shifted around on her couch for a few minutes before he settled into a position which didn’t appear as though it could possibly be comfortable: one leg thrown over the back of the couch, one arm dangling down the side. She worked quietly. She was more of a trial lawyer but this sort of thing she still remembered how to do. Clint was a friend, kind of. They’d been on a team together a few near-death experiences ago, but honestly it had faded into the past -- a nice glow of nostalgia haloing their friendship but without the specifics of recent contact. She’d kept out of the recent drama with Spider Woman, and hadn’t been there as much as she would have liked for Carol Danvers simply by dint of being busy with work. She, unlike some of the other super-set, had a day job.

She glanced up at Clint. His ice pack had fallen on the floor and melted into a puddle, and she had thought he was asleep. He was not. Sad, blue eyes stared at her in an unfocused, introspective kind of way. She kinda wanted to take care of the guy. She kinda wanted him out of her office right the hell now lest his blackened luck do more damage to her life.

“You still alive?” she asked when she had observed him staring for a good minute and a half.

“Huh? Yeah.” He tucked his limbs closer to his body and rolled to his side. “Sorry, I was just...” He frowned in thought. “Are you like, a watermelon?”

She blinked at Clint.

Clint turned bright red and sat up abruptly. “Oh my god, I’m sorry that was totally inapp—” She replayed his question through her mind once more and stared at him harder, causing him to break off mid-sentence. “I’m sorry,” he added again for good measure.

Jennifer burst out laughing, surprising even herself. Once she started she couldn’t stop. She got out a few wheezed words like, “Oh my god,” and “Did you just,” but she never managed to form them into a sentence. Clint went from bright red to a pale white. Jennifer managed to stop laughing long enough for a big breath. “I have gotten a _lot_ of creepy-ass come on’s but I have never heard it put that way.”

“I’m so sorry.” Clint looked miserable. “Can I blame it on the blow to the head?”

“I think we’ll have to. And to answer your question, I’m more of a lime.”

“Wait, really?” Clint’s eyes flicked to the crotch of her dress pants and back to her face as he turned red once more.

Which was pretty much how Jen ended up making out with Clint Barton on her office couch, the office door not even hung on its hinges in a way that it closed any longer. Some guys just had game. And apparently nerves of steel. Few men sat easy cradled between She-Hulk’s thighs, and Clint didn’t even seem to notice.

She perched over his lap, neck bent so their mouths could meet. His hands gripped her butt through the wool of her slacks and inched up to pull her shirt tails loose. She groaned and undulated, rubbing her crotch over Clint’s obvious erection. As demanding -- as forceful -- as Clint could be on the battlefield, his mouth was soft and almost tender against hers. She imagined that he could do wonders against her more sensitive parts with that responsive mouth.

He’d unbuttoned her shirt and tugged one nipple from the cup of her bra. He slid the shirt over her shoulders and wrapped it tightly in one fist, briefly restraining her arms. It was nowhere near enough to actually hold her, but he wriggled deliciously beneath her as he nuzzled between her breasts and that alone was worth some restriction.

He groaned and rested his cheek against her sternum, taking a few deep breaths.

“You good?” Jennifer asked.

“Yeah. Just taking a minute so I don’t—” Clint blushed. “So like a lime you say?” he redirected. “Are you up for some honest investigation on my part? A guy is curious, is all.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Clint grinned and levered Jennifer up. He lay down on the couch and patted his chest. “Get out of those pants and hop aboard the Barton Express.”

“Really? The Barton Express?”

“No customer unsatisfied,” he assured her. His grin was crooked, and his eyes were a little bit pleading, and damn if the thought of what his mouth could do on her sex wasn’t getting her engine revved even without any physical stimuli.

Jennifer dropped her pants, stepped out of her dress shoes, and planted her knee by his shoulder in an aggressive move. If he was going to back out, she would rather have it now than later. She’d run across her fair share of men that liked the idea of bedding She-Hulk but didn’t like it once things got started. The thought of pleasuring a strong, demanding woman turned a lot of guys off, but Clint Barton did not appear to be that type. He situated his arms so they rested along her hips and flanks, and levered her to sit over his mouth.

“Good?” he asked.

“If you are,” Jennifer assured.

“I’m not going to get radiation exposure, right?” he asked with a half-nervous laugh.

“You should be fine,” she assured him as she ran her fingers through his hair and tugged lightly.

Whatever he murmured to himself was lost in her labia. His hands roamed across her body while Clint went to work with his mouth. She was soon bracing her arms above his head, back curved, muscles trembling. Clint paused for breath. “You are not lime-flavored,” he commented. 

“What?” she asked, a bit out of it, and a bit caught off-guard at having a talkative oral-sex-on-the-couch mate. Not that she should have been surprised that Clint was talkative during all activities.

“I mean, I like my women women-flavored. You’re right about the lime thing, though.” He ran his tongue lightly over her clit and hummed thoughtfully. “Everything brightens right up when the blood flow gets going, though.”

“Quit talking and get to business, Barton,” she admonished. She wasn’t certain, but it felt as though he smirked into her vulva before continuing. Clint was good with his mouth, she would give him that. His hands, strong and calloused, kneaded into her butt cheeks and skimmed along her sides, steadying her as she rode his mouth. She came with a surprised sound between a yelp and a whine through a combination of touch and the rumble of Clint’s groan vibrating through her privates.

Jennifer slid a little way down Clint’s chest, so her knees gripped him under the armpits, to catch her breath. Clint swiped his forearm across his mouth with a quietly pleased grin. Jennifer heaved in a huge breath and let it out with a groan. “Oh my god , you are not kidding about being good at that,” she said. Looking down at him, she saw an expression which was rare enough on his face outside of combat: pride. He bit his lip and slipped fingers into her, the way eased by her orgasm and her juices. He milked the tiny aftershock tremors of her inner walls, fingers gentle.

“We’re only getting started, if you’re up for more.”

She shook her hair out of her face and shrugged out of her bra. “What did you have in mind?” She glanced behind herself where Clint’s erection stood at attention tenting his boxers. “Looks like little Hawkguy is setting up camp,” she added.

Clint gave her an incredulous look, and suddenly they were both laughing, guileless and surprising themselves. Through chuckles Clint managed to say, “I would very much like to fuck you on that desk of yours.”

Jennifer eyed her desk, not yet christened in that manner, and shrugged. “On it, or over it?”

“Oh, on it, definitely. Maybe you can fuck me over it some other time.”

“You know I think this violates—” Clint crooked his fingers inside of her, massaging her g-spot while twisting his thumb to give her clit a firm stroke, completely derailing her sentence. “Right, on the desk.”  
\--  
The thought that she should keep more sex toys in her office was not one Jennifer ever imagined would occur to her. She and Clint had gone through a bucket-list of sex acts until well after her usual quitting time, and sacked out on her oversized couch with her throw blanket for a post-coitus recovery nap.

Jennifer wasn’t a huge cuddler, and neither it appeared, was Clint. He’d kicked the blanket off and mashed his face into the corner of her couch, shoulders hunched protectively about his ears. His bare ass stuck out and his hair was adorably sleep-ruffled.

The office door slammed open. Already weakened from the fight earlier in the day, it bashed into the wall and gave up, simply falling off its hinges.

Jennifer rolled off the couch, the throw coming with her to maintain some semblance of modesty. Clint jerked, fell off the couch sideways and flailed. A decorative glass rock on the side table came to his hand, and with unerring aim, he threw it, pegging the intruder square in the face.

“What indignity is this!” a familiar voice shouted. 

Jennifer flicked on the light and an enraged-looking Namor stood, hand over his nose.

“It’s after business hours,” Jennifer replied before he could get another word out.

“Nonetheless, I require—”

“Namor, get out,” Jennifer demanded.

“I have come to—”

She pointed her finger at the door, throw falling to the ground to reveal her in her naked, incandescently pissed glory. “Get OUT,” she roared. Namor got out.


End file.
